


Finding Tony

by coriander



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Domestic Avengers, M/M, Time Travel, family fun times, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriander/pseuds/coriander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, how to navigate astrophysics in 1939. Loki has a new weapon, a time ray he can't control, and uses it to send Iron Man flying into the past. With energy to send just one person after him, the Avengers tap Captain America, while the rest of the team tries to stop Loki and arrest time before their two teammates are stuck in the past for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. These Lines Are Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Emily, who helped write all the Tony parts, and is brilliantly fantastic; and to Ray, the New York City!beta. You guys are fantastical :)

It was a simple mission. A water main break from the last thunderstorm and a flash flood leak in the central drainage, then a broken motor pump and all of a sudden the subway was flooded from the Lower East Side to Alphabet City. Damage control was not and should not have been in the Avengers’ job description, and if Clint had answered the phone he would have said as much in fewer, snarkier words. Tony would have lamented the stupidity of city mechanics, Natasha would have at least given pause before rolling her eyes, Thor wasn’t allowed to touch the phone because he usually smashed it upon hanging up and Bruce... Bruce never answered the phone.

But Clint and Natasha had a mission in Bucharest (which is not Budapest, Barton, don’t even pretend it’s the same thing), Bruce was on vacation in Hawaii (the guy liked beaches and martinis, who knew?), Thor was supposedly on official business in Asgard (but Bruce had no explanation for his extra plane ticket, he had just found it lying around?) and Tony was right in the middle of beating his high score in Galaga. Sacrifices had to be made.

And Steve Rogers, for all his iron will, could never say no to civilians in distress. 

“So get Stark off his ass and go play in the water for awhile,” Fury ordered. “Tell him it’ll be good for your public image.” 

Steve heard him punctuate every word and each last consonant, which meant angry-Fury. And he definitely did not say no to angry-Fury.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think Stark’s particularly fond of water,” was the closest he’d ever come. 

He could hear Fury’s eye narrow. “Water? What is he, a cat? Tell him SHIELD can provide him with a life jacket for the kiddie pool and get his ass off the couch.”

“Yes, sir. Duly noted, sir.”  And that’s how Steve ended up alone and up to his neck in water on the F train. He never did like the subway.   


\--

Somewhere between pulling a businesswoman with a ruined perm out from under a turnstile and switching to the 6 train at Avenue A via sewage water, it occurred to Steve that there must be a reason the water was still flowing in so fast, and not even shoddy engineers could be this inept. He ran into a looter in a mask kicking a blinking Metrocard machine, who revealed (against the wall with the red edge of a shield at his throat) a mysterious perpetrator. Some guy in a cloak offering broken ATMs to those who followed him, turning some of their eyes blue and slicing into the subway infrastructure with a “creepy glowstick thing.”

Today just wasn’t his day.

A close-combat swing-off with Loki against the 6 train’s electrical switchboard, a black eye and several burnt things despite the flooding later, Steve wondered if maybe he should have brought Tony after all. 

He didn’t make it back to Stark Tower until dark, weary and dripping and really, really craving a shower with one of those modern high-pressure things. He stumbled in the back door and practically fell into the elevator, leaning against his shield against the wall for balance. He gave the security camera a long-suffering look, as though willing Jarvis to hide the feed from Tony. He could read emotions, right? The AI, that is. Not Tony.

Who he found himself face to face with on the other side of the elevator door.

Steve blinked. Tony blinked. Steve looked away. Tony looked him up and down.

Then, “Hi.”

  

“Uh.” Tony’s eyes followed him as he side-stepped out of the elevator. “Hi. I’m offended. What’s up with you, been fighting villainy without me?”

Please, please not now. There were many things Steve would have liked to say to Tony, not just then but always, most of them not as kind as his conscience would allow. He probably should have explained things, too, but not now. He settled for, “Just doing my job.”

Tony followed him, eyebrows creased in genuine confusion. “Alone? There’s no I in Avenger, Cap, come on, what are you doing all snazzed up in your spangly outfit? Fury got you doing chorus scenes like in the war?” He chuckled to himself, then gave a choked yelp as Steve elbowed him in the side and pushed past him.

“Ow- fuck, Steve, what the hell?” Tony baulked and stalked after him. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I’m sure Tasha can advise you on thongs if that outfit is chafing but really it isn’t nice to take your personal rashes out on me.”

Steve graced him with a plea in the form of tired puppy-dog eyes. “Leave me alone, Stark.” And shut the door to his room in his face.

“I have ointment for ball chafing if you’re interested!” Tony called through the door. “Not like you can get much in there...” He gestured at where Steve’s backside had been with a pout. “And you’re supposed to be the mature one! Really, it’s very immature of you to not even say hello. Where were you brought up? I think I should tell Fury on you, y’know, I will, I’ll do it--”

Steve shoved the door open. “What do you want, Stark?”   
“Steve. Cap- Steve, I wish to file a complaint,” Tony went on. “Against you. Stop shutting doors in my face, for one, it’s a gorgeous face and I wouldn’t want you to miss out. Two, it’s rude. Three, it wounds me deep inside my soul. Four, what’s wrong?”

Steve sighed out through his nose. “Nothing. Mission. Go file your complaint.” And shut the door again.

“Steve!” he heard Tony shout after him, then his footsteps dying off as he flounced off to annoy his next victim, or tinker with things in the lab, or whatever Tony did when he wasn’t being a thorn in his side. He flopped backwards on the bed, content to doze off in peace -- until he heard the echoes of a one-sided conversation in the bathroom.

Jarvis, find me a weak point, will you? Thanks, babe. One well-aimed decorative plant pot ought to do it-

“Stark! What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” There was a pause. “I mean. Tony’s not in, try again later!”  
 And then the wall came tumbling down.

Tony emerged from the wreckage grinning through the hole in Steve’s wall, plaster in his hair. “I’m nothing if not a trooper, you’ve got to give me that.”  Steve just stared at him, flabbergasted. “You just tore down a wall.”

“Yes, yes I did.”

Steve blinked. Then, “I’m filing a complaint with Fury. Get out.”

“Hey, you wouldn’t let me in. I had to find alternatives.”

“So you broke down a wall...okay. Okay.” Steve looked at him, bewildered at the broken wall and debris dripping from the ceiling, then back at Tony. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shower. Thanks for the new door.”

“Steve...” Tony exhaled through parted lips, plaster falling lazily from his hair. “I’m just- I’m just trying to do this...this nice guy thing, alright? And you’re really not helping with your...ass. Stick. Situation. I’m- Help a guy out, you know?”

Steve stepped around bits of plaster and rubble to his closet. “I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I’d like to shower alone, please?”   
Tony frowned at him. “I won’t look.”

“Stark. Tony.” Steve turned and looked up and down at him. “I’m tired, okay? If you really want to be nice, you can make coffee or something. Get Jarvis to make coffee. Whatever.”

“Oh...” Tony blinked and stood, and Steve should have been concerned with the way the cogs were turning behind his eyes but he was just too tired to care. “Um...hm.” Tony bit his bottom lip in concentration, then left the room without another word. 

\--

Half an hour later, Steve answered the door in his bathrobe to find Tony, holding a steaming coffee mug.

“Knock knock, meals on wheels,” he drawled.

“Tony, what-- ...oh.” He looked down at the mug in his hands, balanced carefully between his fingers. “You actually...” He nudged the door all the way open, neglecting to finish the sentence in favor of accepting the coffee. “Thanks. Really.”  “Yeah, yeah, pleased to see me, I know, I’m going now. You can thank Jarvis for the coffee, it’s at optimum levels of caffeine and --”

“Tony--”

“And I’ll get him to call the contractors...fix the wall. Hey, at least you’ve got an en suite, right? No, I know, I’m going. Night, Cap.” Tony turned away, the light from the arc reactor glowing blue off the walls.

“Wait, Tony.” Steve opened his mouth before he could stop himself, and covered it with his coffee mug. “Tony. Thanks.”

“Welcome,” he said stiffly, raising two fingers to his forehead and flicking them in a salute before turning again.

It would have been almost nice, except for Loki was still running around the subways and the coffee tasted like shit.  
\--

 

The night was quiet for Tony. He didn’t sleep, but that wasn’t unusual, and there was a slight mishap with the fire extinguisher, but all in all, it was quiet. The sun rose about an hour into his whiskey-induced doze and woke him with an offensively cheerful yellow glow, stirring him and pointing him to the bathroom for a shower, then to the kitchen for leftover coffee. It was quiet in the house and Tony crept around on bare toes, feeling almost like an intruder on his own property. What an idea.

Morning television was absolutely appalling, he decided, halfway through some godawful housing program and around the time he poured a shot of gin into his coffee. He should buy a satellite and create Stark TV. Something to occupy him while two thirds of his team was away.

The oddest thing, and Tony’s life had been rather odd as of late, was that having six superheroes living in a house together wasn’t odd at all. In fact it was somehow comfortable, and having them all absent except for Captain Miserable was doing Tony’s head in. He began pacing, up and down the corridors, up to the lab and down to the garage and up to the lab again, attempting to occupy his brain.  
 Steve should have been awake by now. He usually rose with the sunrise and fought crime and fell asleep on time like clockwork, operating like a good little boy scout, but this morning he remained irritatingly absent. 

By noon Tony had already invented several new things that would revolutionize pretty much everything, redesigned Bruce’s section of the house to be more homely and efficient, taken the E-type to Queens, called Pepper, not called several executors, and spent an inordinate amount of time face down on the sofa.

It was nearing two when he marched up to Steve’s room and nearly walked right into him.

“...Good morning.” Steve closed the door behind himself and shuffled awkwardly into the hallway. “Um. Can I help you with something?”

“Ah. You. You. Shit, that’s, that’s something to wake up to, wow, Jesus.” Tony waved a hand at Steve’s naked chest and stepped back, blinking several times. “Didn’t know I had tickets to this gun show. Uh. Hello. No? It’s like half-past two or something, and I thought you might have died.”

Steve smiled a little despite himself. “Good morning to you too.” He stepped past him, “I hope there’s still some wonder-coffee left?”

“Wonder coffee?” Tony tilted his head at him, and ignored his unclothed chest, which really should have been banned before at least nine at night. “I thought you didn’t like my coffee. I see how it is, now you want me. Well. I might just not play after the way you treated me yesterday. So there.”

Steve just kept walking, apparently proficient in Tony-sarcasm 101. “It was good,” he said simply, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Wh--” Tony scowled at nothing in particular and trotted after him. He was tempted to leave to him to whatever he did all day and disappear into the lab, but something (the gin in his coffee?) kept him walking, and watching Steve in the kitchen as he drifted about, a slight frown on his face.

He watched as Steve took the cold coffee from the coffee maker, and attempted to figure out the microwave. Again. Or maybe he was just trying really hard to will Tony away.

“So um...” Tony lingered regardless. “Are you going to tell me what was going on yesterday?”  “Mission,” Steve replied shortly. Hadn’t Bruce told him that staring at the microwave like that would give him radiation poisoning?

"So you said." Tony stared disapprovingly at his's back. "That's all you said. Come on Steve, seriously, I don't care if you were..." He waved a hand. "Seeing hookers, I don't care, just say it and I'll go away."

Steve frowned into the microwave. “Maybe it’s none of your business. I don’t ask what you do on your off days.”

Tony didn't know defensive-Steve. It was something he wasn't familiar with; and so naturally, he had to poke it to see what it did. "I wouldn't care if you asked. But it wasn't an off day, that's the point, Steve, that's the whole point if you were on a mission, then it was not an 'off' day, right? You were very much on."

Steve pressed two wrong buttons and a shrill beeper before opening the microwave properly. "Doesn't make it your business. Not everything's about you, Stark."

Tony's frown became a glare somewhere in the space between his eyebrows. "I'm asking whether you’re all right, how in fuck does that make it about me? Jesus, Steve, you're a real ass..."

Steve sat down with his coffee between his hands, blowing softly at the steam. "It was an approved mission, okay? I had to go alone, Fury's orders. And it was fine. Don't get so worked up over it." 

"Great. Just- Great, I should have--" His lips twitched and Tony looked somewhere off to the side. Fury had sidelined him. He should have expected that really, and didn't that make everything worse? He should have been prepared for it. "I'm glad you had fun."

"Loads of fun. Walk in the park," Steve agreed, tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb. "Loki underwater on the subway, yeah, I'd take that over Sims any day, but that's just because I don't know how to work a game cube controller.”

"Loki?" Tony's surprise was palpable for a second, before he reigned in his emotions and set his jaw. "I thought Thor has him under wraps? Jesus...fuck. What the fuck is Fury playing at? What the fuck are you playing at? Why wouldn't you tell me about it? Let alone go with me, shit Steve, I know you're supposed to be the leader and everything but--”

He was cut off by the loud ring of the kitchen phone, which Clint had set to Call Me Maybe just to piss off Fury. And possibly to piss off Natasha, who’d had it set to Korobeiniki. He looked at Steve, who had the phone within a step, but still rolled his eyes before answering with a nervous glance at the caller ID.

“Director Fury, sir.”

The response boomed out over the speakerphone. “What the hell were you doing last night, Rogers?” Steve’s finger flew to the mute button, but he caught Tony’s eye and stopped himself. Too late. “And can Stark hear me? Where the hell was he?”

Tony tilted his head slightly, his lip curled in what might have been a snarl. “I think you’d better ask Cap that, sir,” he said quietly, calculating, watching Steve’s every move.

The phone cracked on the other end. “I don’t care how important the new episode of whatever stupid ass TV show was on, Stark, or about about your playground communication problems. What I do care about is the mentally unstable Asgardian lighting up the New York subway like the Fourth of July parade. I’ve called the rest of the team home from their honeymoons, but I need you two at Grand Central Station now.”

“We’re on it.” Tony waited until Steve ended the call, still watching him. “Or are you going alone again? I don’t mind, do be honest. I’ve got some stuff to do in the lab. Pepper’s been riding me about some dinner or other so there’s that. Go play on your own, that’s how you work, right?”  “Stop it.” Steve sighed into his coffee, stood and drank the rest in one swig. “And suit up. We don’t have time for this.”

"Yes, mom." Tony curled his lip and left the room, again tempted to lock himself in the lab and refuse to come out. He went to the penthouse, canceling Jarvis' plans to call the contractors and fix Steve's bedroom -- asshole could wait -- and suited up, deciding to get a head start and leaving Steve to catch up. Which entailed jumping off the roof. Direct route to Grand Central.

Steve caught up with him on his motorbike just before Fifth Street. He all but shouted into the comm link, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

"It's called flying, Captain. Really, it's easy to see why I'm the genius of the group." Tony's voice was velvet smooth, just sharp enough to show he was annoyed, or else being a dick for being a dick's sake. He skirted a building much too late, because he didn't think Steve would see his raised middle fingers in the thrusters' glare, and barreled down Madison.

“Don’t be a hothead,” Steve grumbled into the comm. He revved his engine, and Tony saw him out dodging traffic across East 46th out of the corner of his eye. The landed in the same place, in front of the terminal, already a mess of fleeing civilians and haphazard explosions wracking the beaten windows. God only knew why anyone lived in New York anymore.

“I think we’re late to the party,” Steve mumbled into the comm.

Tony had already opened his iron palms, firing repulsor blasts at something unseen. "Cap, could you not use this communication line for petty commentary? It's kind of, really important, and I'd appreciate you respecting that." His voice oozed, the jab of some metaphorical vocal knife, even as a burst of blue light ripped through the station's ceiling and sent a block full of people screaming in terror.

They were thrown apart by an explosion of rubble and light, and a moment later Steve’s voice cut through the pulsing shock: "Tony! What are we fighting?"

Tony shot up into the air, neck and neck with a bizarre mechanical attacker that just hat Loki’s name written all over it. "I’m fighting Rudolph over here. You...you look like you're dancing the foxtrot. Good luck with that." Another bang and what little glass remained in the station's windows was blown outwards. "Eat it, you little shit!"

The maniacal gadget went up in flames, just as Steve rolled behind a taxi incinerated by a rather unsettling blue laser beam. He crawled out on his hands and knees, and sifted what looked like a fine electric ash between his fingers. “Tony? Don’t get hit by those lasers!”

Tony rolled back into the fray with a grunt over the comm. "Oh, damn. Y'know that was my plan? Get hit by the fucking lase--" The comm crackled and Iron Man went hurtling through the station ceiling, crashing to a fizzing heap against the flaming New York Times stall. "Shit..."

“I’m coming!” Steve’s voice sounded high, but maybe that was the smoke. “Hang on. Just don’t get hit. The lasers are doing this weird thing--”

"Just get Loki would you, twinkletoes?" Tony scrambled to his feet, wobbling, most of his left gauntlet crumbling away to blue ash. He shook his hand and the red metal fell away to nothing, leaving one very real, pink, human hand. "Well that's a bummer."

“Bummer--? Look, Loki’s probably inside the station. I’m going in.”

Tony swore rather colorfully at him and ran back toward the station building, not wanting to risk flying with three thrusters. Instability wasn't something he could afford. He dodged some flaming cars, skirting round the remains of what looked like a ticket office and began ushering civilians from the lobby, covering their escape with repulsor blasts.

“What’s the sitch?” He asked the comm link once he had a second to breath, a split second before he felt another blast of something rock the station's foundations. The ground shook, marble cracking, and Tony caught a young girl's hand before she fell, saluting and sending her on her way before following Cap's trail.

"It seems to be some kind of magic," Steve reported back. Always helpful, that one.

Tony scoffed and jumped the turnstiles after him, heading down to the platforms, helping people out as he went for he was nothing if not a charitable superhero. "I hate magic," he mused, pulling a face. The faceplate ruined the effect, but the face was there.

It was another moment before he heard Steve’s voice again, clear and earnest. “Stop this right now, Loki!” 

What a sucker for the cliche. He listened, unable to hear Loki's side of the conversation but reckoning Steve had found him anyway. The Captain would have taken the West tunnel, because if Tony's calculations were correct, it sloped slightly downwards and Steve much preferred walking downhill in his spangly leggings. He'd said so. Sort of. "Coordinates, Cap," he said, starting down the East tunnel.

“Do you know what this is?” Loki asked, loud enough for Tony to hear his damn arrogant voice echo through the comm. “I believe a demonstration is in order.”

A clash of rocks, and no answer from Steve. "Cap, I need coordinates!" Tony started to run, taking the nearest turn to the north, flashing up the HUD and analyzing every inch of the subway system. He could double back on himself in several hundred yards and run parallel to Steve's position. Or where he thought Steve was anyway.

"West Tunnel!” Steve’s voice sounded pained. “50 meters in!"

"Don't get killed till I get there, alright?" Tony took off with a leap, hitting the wall of the tunnel and tumbling in mid air until he could achieve stability with only one gauntlet. The infrared finally detected Cap's position, Tony lighting up the tunnel as he hurtled closer.

"Captain, Captain!" Loki was laughing, an unhinged sort of glint in his eye. "So violent today. Did our meeting yesterday throw you slightly? And you didn't answer my question.” Tony zeroed in on him spinning his scepter in his hand, sending a burning blue burst at the far tunnel wall. It started to crumble. "Though...I suppose he has a little issue with water nowadays, does he not? Amusing." The wall creaked, ancient stones buckling under an unknown weight, and suddenly water started to pour through the cracks.

Steve went on the attack, but the shock of the second blast propelled him back into the opposite wall. “Tony! Could use a little help here!”

"Just a second, darling." Busy reverting power to the chest plate, while trying to maintain stable flight, Tony turned the final tunnel corner, a bright yellow glow coming toward Steve and Loki at alarming speed.

"So kind of you to join us!" Loki twirled his scepter and shot a blast at Steve, trapping him behind a shower of rubble, and aimed another dazzling shot at Tony. "You're a man of science, Anthony. How do you like my new toy?"

"Sir, if you do not move now, collision is unavoidable," came Jarvis' voice over the comms. Tony's was going too fast, no way he could stop now. He swiveled in the air and skirted the blast from the scepter. "Pretty. Think it'd look better shoved up your ass, though--" The chestplate glowed blue and Tony let his main repulsor go, colliding with Loki a second later, momentum carrying his prone body against the Iron Man armor.

Loki's head slammed into the train tracks, the iron helmet clanging against the glowing metal. "Very good..." He smirked eyes alight with blue sparks. "How would you like to be my first test?" 

He jammed his scepter at Tony's breastplate. Steve punched through the debris just in time to see a flash of sparks, then a blinding blue laser erupting from the arc reactor.

"TONY!"

Tony wobbled, and suddenly it seemed as though flight was a distant memory. Momentum carried him further than he would have liked, the tunnel crumbling under the weight of his impact, an Iron Man sized hole leaking water from the darkness somewhere about a mile away. He crashed to a halt as the arc reactor did, fizzing desperately, the armor crushed and crippled around his limp body.

Well. At least Loki was floored. 

And then everything went dark.

\--

Loki made a curious face at the pillar of sparks where Iron Man had been. "Pity," he murmured, a handful of ashes in his hands, "Shouldn't have looked back." He sidestepped Steve's shield with an unamused whistle, eyes still focused on his handiwork.

"What’ve you done to him?" Steve's voice was raw, his fists erratic, and Loki marveled at how easy it would be to blast him too, but this was much more fun. All in good time.

"Sent him on a little trip," he replied cheerfully, swinging the scepter round his fingers like it was a pistol. It sent sparks over the tunnel floor. "Is that...is that sentiment, Captain?"

"Is he dead?" Steve stopped, both hands on his shield, staring down at the puddle of ashes with furious eyes.

"Depends. Where do you think the soul goes, Captain? Or do you believe in magic?" Loki smiled at the way Steve's face contorted in fury, anguish, confusion. "Isn't this interesting. I'd love to examine this further, really I would, but I think that's quite enough for today, don't you?"

“Wait, you can’t--”

Loki phased out, leaving Steve alone in the dark crumbling tunnel with nothing but a handful of ashes at his knees.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tony woke up, he felt like he’d been run over by a train.

 And then he nearly got run over by a train.

“Shit--” He rolled off of the train tracks and felt someone grab him from behind, pulling him onto the workdeck just as a leaky subway car came hurtling through.

“Jesus, boy, what do you think you’re doing down here?” the custodian demanded in a deep Bronx accent, straightening his cap with an arduous expression. “You coulda been killed!” 

  “Um, hello, I’m Iron--” Tony looked down at his hands. They were white in the dark, and painfully human. “...I’ll be going.”   

“Staircase on your left. I hope you learned your lesson!”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Damnit, had Steve just left him there to die? Last thing he remembered was getting clocked by Loki, but then he should’ve woken up in a posh hospital bed with pretty nurses hanging grapes over his nose, not right where he fell. 

Maybe Steve was just being a bastard. He always had been bad for his libido.

Daylight flooded the stairwell as he pushed the door open and staggered out onto East 45th Street. He rubbed his eyes and look, what do you know, NYPD had already cleaned up their mess. That had to be record speed. The streets were clean, no shattered glass to be found, civilians bustling to and fro as if there had never been a series of massive explosions at all. He’d never understand how they did that.

Like hell he was walking all the way back to Stark Tower. He was going to take a cab, and Steve could suck it. But as he walked down the street he noticed a distinct lack of cabs, and the ones he saw were decidedly...lumpier. Big, old-fashioned. So the city decided to go retro overnight? Odd, but okay.

But as he looked around, he noticed the buildings had a sort of retro feel to them too. They seemed shorter, dustier, some of them redder, the bricks more distinct -- bricks, not shiny metal siding. The people around him wore long button-up coats that were not so strange, just different. A little too different for his liking. Either he’d missed a memo and today was a city-wide retro day, or he’d hit his head a little harder than he’d thought.

“Hey, ‘scuse me!” He pushed his way to a paper boy on the corner. Who knew New York had paper boys anymore? “Gimme one of those, please.”

The kid had yellowed, crooked teeth, hidden behind thin lips and the shadow of his cap. He looked at him sideways with beady eyes. “Five cents, sir.”

“Seriously?” Tony shoved a hand in his pockets; nothing. Why would he carry money in the Iron Man suit when the guys at the shawarma place gave them everything on the house? “I could find a nickel on the street, kid. Why don’t you just give me the paper?”

“Can’t do that, sir. Making a living, sir.” 

“What are you, six? You need to be in school. And why do you sound Irish?” But honestly, Tony didn’t have time for this. “Look, just--”

He reached out to snatch a paper, because he was Iron Man and he could take a toddler, but the boy jerked back with a shrill cry. “Thief! Thief!”

The paperboy tore the paper from his hands, but beneath the familiar New York Times masthead, he’d seen all he needed to see.

A burley man in a ragged business suit came up behind the shrieking child. “Is there a problem, sir?”  Tony backed away, his hands raised in defense. “No no, mister, not at all. I’m just...I’ll just be going. You know. Enjoying 1939.”  Because that’s what the newspaper had said.

February 28th, 1939.

\--

“It is the technological prowess of Asgard.” Thor stood with his hands on his hammer, leaning against the gathering table with an eerie pensiveness. “The Gatekeeper was once said to hold the key to a time portal, but such secrets have been lost for millennia. For my brother to have harnessed such power is surprising, but not impossible.”

“Wait. Hold up.” Clint was just as on edge as the rest of them, bending an arrow tab between two fingers. “Time travel? Sorry guys, but it looks like Stark was, um...”

“It’s not wishful thinking.” Bruce stood behind one of Tony’s hologram computers, his hands dancing between atoms and compounds to blueprints and decrypted code. “Thor said that the blue ash Steve described is a byproduct of small fractures in the time stream, and in theory things like a taxi, a building block, even a... a human, they’d leave some sort of residue. See this little calculator in the corner of the screen...” He pulled the red hologram to the center and enlarged it. Numbers flashed across the center screen, a series of complex formulas spread beneath. “I’m tracking his signature from the ashes Steve brought back. If Jarvis’s calculations are accurate, we might be able to--”

“Now hold on just one moment,” Fury cut in. “When did you become an authority on the quantum physics of time travel, Dr. Banner?”  

Bruce shrugged apologetically. “Last night?” 

“I like this logic. Real sound.” Clint drummed his hands on the table, eyes raised skyward. “It’s some combination of sparkles and magic and time travel? Sorry, but this isn’t Back to the Future.”

Natasha flicked her eyes at Steve. “It’s a movie.”

Steve ignored her, rising to his feet with his hands on the table. “Are you saying Tony is dead?”

  “Don’t make me sound like such a heartless bastard for pointing out the truth! I want him to be alive just as much as you do, but wanting it helps nothing; I thought you would understand that. Help me out, Natasha, tell him that sometimes reality isn’t--”

“He’s not dead! He can’t be dead!”

“Blaming yourself won’t bring him back!”  

“Steve, Clint--”

“You guys are giving me a headache,” Bruce groaned into his hands.

“You’re all acting like children,” Fury added sharply, with a stern hand on his hip. “Rogers, sit down. Barton, shut up. Arguing will get us nowhere.”  “Really?” Clint looked up, and the tab snapped in half. “I think we work best when we argue.”

Steve’s face set into the closest it would ever come to a snarl. “Maybe you should have stayed in Budapest.”

“Bucharest,” Natasha interjected.

“Anger guys, anger is not good. Actually, anger is really, really bad...”

“I’m not angry, I’m being realistic!”  “You’re being unhelpful!”

“I do not appreciate these fighting words from my brothers in arms!”  “I take it back, you’re like toddlers! Do I need to call your mommies?”  “All our parents are dead, you ass.”

“Agent Barton, you are out of line--”

Bruce’s computer cut them off with an ear-splitting ring. He quickly slammed the volume tab, hiding behind the hologram with a tilted smile. “Sorry.”

Silence. Everyone stared at him as he ran his fingertips over a fresh set of numeric streaming, and followed his hands to his lip as he covered his mouth in excitement. “I think I found him.”  

Steve jumped up. “Where?”  

“Sit down, Rogers.”

Bruce ignored them, his hands dancing across the keyboard. “Whatever Loki’s using, it must not be very strong, or at least not yet finished. I mean, strong enough to blow up cars and concrete but... the taxi residue is giving me about a negative hundred years, and Tony’s is only giving me... between a negative 70 and a negative 75, two year margin of error. Which sounds like a lot, but it really isn’t if you consider the enormity of time and space...”

“This is good news. He could have been sent to the dawn of time and eaten by a son of Muspell.” Thor looked up and blinked at the rest of the room. “A monster. You know, long neck, claws, roars...” He gestured unhelpfully, making clawing motions with his hands and generally intimidating facial expressions.

“A dinosaur,” Natasha ventured.

“Irrelevant.” Fury slammed his stack of papers on the table. “Continue, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce tapped two fingers and pulled up a 3D diagram of the Grand Central tunnel. “The reason we have to be optimistic is that transporting a human being through the time stream... isn’t really easy.” To the side he pulled up something it looked like he’d sketched just that morning, a mess of purple and yellow lights massed in a flashing vortex, laced with an electric blue. “Time travel isn’t a stable process to begin with. If Loki had control of it, he’d control where he was sending the things he hit. But as it stands, the taxi must’ve materialized in about 1913 and crushed some poor guy’s carriage, and Tony’s in the same spot he vanished, in the 1930’s. The instability leaves a residue which allows us to track, but not open the time stream. Which is how I’m able to follow Tony’s signature across the dimension-- it’s faint, but it’s there-- and I may be able to put an exact date on his location.”

“And what does that do?” Clint sat with his head on his hands. “So he’ll charm all the girls before he goes off to war, and maybe we’ll run into his old man version some day ... in the past.” He blinked. “God this is weird.”

“I actually think...” Bruce fiddled with the keys more, breaking down the time stream model into a series of ducts with energy hotspots in red. “Because of the unstable nature of time travel, the time stream was left open at the site of disappearance. Being an inanimate object, the taxi’s path and anything else destroyed yesterday is probably closed, but Tony’s... Tony’s might still have a little something there.” He zoomed in on the scribbles that were probably supposed to simulate a crack in time. “If we go there quick, stand on the spot and apply a jump-- a defibrillator, some sort of electricity-- there might be enough physical energy to send one person after him.”

  “Wait.” Fury raised a hand. “I can only send one of you?”

  “If even. The energy is fading as we speak.”

Nervous glances leapt around the room.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Clint’s fist crushed around the bits of his crushed archer tab. “I hate to keep being the wet blanket, but... even if we sent someone after Stark, how do we get them back?”

“I might be able to arrange that,” Thor spoke up. “If my brother can harness the stream of time then so can I, and with greater ease. For the Gatekeeper of Asgard is on the side of justice.” 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Then it’s settled.” Fury stood with a sense of purpose and shoved his files into his bag. “Agent Romanov, suit up. Dr. Banner, bring any equipment you need to the van--”  “Wait.” Steve rose slowly to his feet, eyes alight. “Agent Romanov?”

  Fury scowled. “Is there a problem, Captain Rogers?” 

“I actually have to agree with Steve.” Natasha watched him carefully, her eyes narrow, pensive. “I would think him a much more appropriate choice, considering the circumstances. Why me?”

“Um.” Fury eyed them with his best are you a complete idiot expression. “Because you’re a trained spy, best equipped to handle a delicate situation and one of my best agents? With all due respect, Captain Rogers is much too volatile at the moment.”  

“Not to mention a particular attachment to the times,” Clint added under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“But that’s just it.” Natasha spoke quietly, her eyes on Steve. “Captain Rogers has the best knowledge of the time period, does he not? Seeing as he was there. Recently. I can always blend in, but never like a native.” Her eyes swiveled to Fury, fixing on him like a target. “And with all due respect, sir, we’re all a little volatile. Steve’s upset right now, he blames himself--”  

“I never said--”  

“And weren’t you the one who once said that we all needed a little push?”

Fury went silent. Impossible to tell whether he was debating, or about to scream the living daylights out of all of them. 

“Sir.” Steve’s voice was quiet, beseeching. “It’s my duty, to my nation and to my team. And to Iron Man, as my partner in arms.” Who he’d let down so horribly just that morning. “I know pre-war New York like the back of my hand-- better than the back of my hand. I’ll do my best to do the Avengers proud, sir.”

Fury gave him a hard look, and made a split second decision. “Fine. Get in the van. Come on, move out, you heard Dr. Banner, we don’t have much time.”

Steve didn’t even have time to look grateful, but Natasha did. She ignored a look from Clint with a triumphant face of her own, and stalked off like she’d just done something very, very right.

\---

Tony’s first reaction to confirming that he was in fact in 1939 was, well, shit. The second was that maybe he could hook up with some nice 30’s girls, they always looked nice in the pinups and he could do with a little old-fashioned. The next was a stab of pain in his chest that brought him back to the first. Shit.

He wasn’t sure what was wrong with the arc reactor, but there was clearly something wrong because fucking ow stabbing pain through the chest. It figured, he’d built the thing to withstand just about everything except time travel. Inter-dimensional travel through time and space while having his individual particles ripped to bits and then spliced haphazardly together again was probably bad for his mechanical heart. 

Judging by the amount of pain, the staggering bits of metal driving into his chest and the way his veins pulsed, the blood clotting to the point he could swore he could see his fingers turning blue, he probably had less than twenty-four hours to jump start the damn thing before... before the outcome was less than desirable. Goddamnit.

Okay, calm down. He’d been here before. Maybe not here here, but he knew New York City and he’d definitely been in tougher spots. And he was a genius. He could do this. So first things first, before revolutionizing the 1930’s with the world’s first time machine, he would fix the arc reactor. So he didn’t die in the process. It would leave a nice legacy, though.

Fuck, he’d have to use palladium. This wasn’t like Back to the Future at all.

Where to get palladium, where had the right resources...well. No. There had to be...no. Maybe in New Jersey, that was industrial, right? But the pain in his chest. Ow. 

He was not going to Stark Industries. Over his dead body.

Until he remembered that the latter was a viable option. 

Well...he hadn’t seen Howard in awhile.

Fifteen minutes that felt like an eternity later found him standing at the golden door of Stark Industries, 1939. It was almost surreal. He was proud of his dad, at least; Stark Industries had the flashiest doors on the block, and the most pretentious electric sign. In Tony’s opinion it made it look like a brothel, but he supposed it was alright since no one else had the pretty neon light linings. Stark Industries, founder of hipsterdom. Who knew.

Another jolt of pain through his chest prodded him like a rod. Alright, alright. He was going. He flipped the bird at no one in particular, maybe the shitty gods of fortune-- or mischief, come to think of it-- and made his way into the building. 

The building looked professional, white washed walls with strategically placed portraits, some of Howard, some of his brilliant inventions, some of the New York skyline at twilight. One point for Daddy Stark, because he needed all the points he could get. He strode into the lobby and up to the receptionist’s desk with all the swagger he could muster and he was glad he did, because damn, she was a looker. Another point for Daddy Stark.

The blond girl looked up at him behind thin-rimmed glasses and an entire fortress of charcoal eyeliner, short styled curls. She raised a delicate eyebrow, scarlet nails drummer on the desk, baby blue eyes regarding him with suspicion. Way to pick ‘em, Howard.

“Can I help you?” she demanded tersely. She was probably used to men staring down.

Tony just smiled, all charm and sparkles. “I’m here to see Mr. Howard Stark.”  “Uh-huh.” Pinup girl checked her files-- paper files. What did people do before computers? “Sorry, he’s all booked for today. I can get you an appointment...” She looked down at her calendar. “May 13th.” 

“No, no, I don’t think you understand. I’m...” Dying. “His...” Son. “His... relative. Second cousin once removed, his sister’s nephew’s cousin’s son, you know how it goes. And I really need to see him, see, important family business...”

“I’m real sorry, sir.” 

She didn’t look sorry at all. She wasn’t even looking at him. But okay. He could work with this.

He leaned over the desk with his best smolder-face. “Think you can do me a favor? Pretty girl like you...” Insert wink.

She ignored him. Blatantly.

He leaned just a little further, his toes lifting off the ground. He smelled her perfume, a crisp vanilla-mint, saw the bright cherry red of her lipstick--

She grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head down onto the desk.

“Ow, fuck--!”

She shoved his nose into her paperwork, her nails digging into his scalp. “Language, sir. And please, do not mess with employees of Stark Industries.”  “What are you, a robot, dear fucking god, that hurts.” She was unrelenting, this one. Would probably get along with Natasha. “Threatening, I feel threatened, Jesus tittyfucking--”

"Excuse me,” a sharp, authoritative voice cut in, “What's going on out here?"

Howard Stark stood in the door to the reception room, his arms folded, his eyes lowered as though reprimanding a child. Tony knew the expression well. He cringed just a bit, lifting his hands off the receptionist's desk with an innocent smile.

"Howard, my boy! I'm not sure that you remember me, oh. Wow, wow you've grown, I ... haven't seen you since you were ... a kid. I was just telling Miss Blondie over here about your mother, wonderful lady, you know I'm her brother's cousin's great uncle's boyfriend-- great uncle's daughter's boyfriend. Well, fiancee twice removed, it's kind of complicated. Boy, it's been awhile!"

Howard stared at him thinly veiled suspicion. His lips cracked into a smile, loose and yet guarded, shooting a glance at his receptionist before walking forward. 

"Cancel my 2 o'clock, would you doll?" The receptionist wouldn't look at Howard, kept her eyes low and away from red suspenders and a pinstripe shirt. She simply nodded, shooting another venomous glare at Tony before returning to the calendar. Howard advanced on Tony, his expression caught between anger and amusement, as though intrigued. "Neat," he said curtly with poorly hidden interest, a tone Tony knew well. Bright eyes trained on the flickering ring of light underneath Tony's shirt. "What is it?"

"Oh, this?" Tony tapped it with a careless fingernail. Ow. "Heart problems, you know, old guy like me. I got this fancy surgery done in, uh. China. You know the Chinese, some crazy shit. Tinkered it with it a bit and hey, now it's glow in the dark." He glanced at the security guard, then pointedly at the receptionist, who glared straight back. "Not that this isn't great, but uh...mind if we take this into your office?"

Howard studied the ring of light for a moment, and seemed to decide he wasn’t a threat. He looked at him, seeing a family resemblance he wasn't sure existed without the trick the lights were obviously playing. "What did you say your name was?"

"Tony." He extended a jovial hand. "Tony...Rogers."

"Rogers, huh?" Howard turned, flashed a winning smile at the receptionist and started to head to some rickety looking elevators, the sort with grates. "I knew a Miss Rogers once. Brooklyn girl. Don't mean to uh...culture shock, ain't there a war on in China? Young guy like you should be fighting for freedom."

Was there a war on in 1939? Hell if he knew his American history. "Young guy? I’m flattered. But nah, it's the heart condition, it really eats at you. That's why I'm here, actually. That and your terrible elevator design, have you never even looked at a pulley system?" He stopped in the elevator door and knelt on one knee, peering down into the shaft. He couldn’t help himself. "This is terrible, Stark. You call yourself the greatest engineering mind of your time? For shame."

"So you are on our side. Even if you are...Chinese." Howard raised an eyebrow and stepped into the elevator, pulling the grate shut behind him and Tony once he had stood. His mustache twitched with his smile. "Complete stranger comes into my building and insults my elevator. I like that. Who are you, government?"

"Government? Nah. They told me I'm...volatile. Don't play well with others." He thought of the Avengers, they might be government by some enormous stretch of the imagination. But then he thought of Fury, cutting him out like a spare part. And Steve, flying off without him. Bastard. "I don't work for anyone. ‘Cept myself, of course."

"Huh. Lone ranger?" The elevator creaked to life and brought them up to the top floor of the building. Agents roamed the corridors, people with clipboards and other sciencey instruments. It looked exhausting. Howard stepped out confidently and into what was obviously his office, a large room with posters and maps all over the walls, various tools and machines in every corner, an old-fashioned version of Tony's lab. "So what can I do for you...Rogers, was it?"

"Rogers, yeah. That was what I said right? Rogers. Cool. And totally not creepy...uh." Tony walked into the room as though it was his, poking something that glowed blue and raising an eyebrow. He vaguely knew this technology as 'Hydra', from what Steve had told him. Perhaps Howard was hoping to understand it better. He would have explored more, but a shock of pain rocked his chest and jerked him back into focus. "Ow. Okay. We need to work quickly, 'cause this is going critical." Tony pulled his shirt off in one fluid movement and dropped it, revealing a scarred mess of purpling skin. "I'm losing power."

"What the hell is that, Rogers?" Howard's eyebrows rose as his jaw fell. He moved closer, cautious, and peered into the blue light, tracing the rim with a careful finger. "Some sort of whacked out Chinese tech?"

Right. Tony was Rogers. Remember that. Another fierce jolt of pain shot through him, straight from his heart and piercing through his veins. He clenched his teeth, "Yeah. That's what it is. Whacked out- Whatever you said. Yep. You got any palladium? Just a scrap'll hold for a while. I- I kinda busted my heart in...uh.... No, not Vietnam. Uh. Somewhere. Heart got busted, this keeps it unbusted, comprendez? Palladium, go." He shut his eyes for a second, because to hell with manners. Getting critical. The light from the arc reactor flickered, Tony bringing up a hand to carefully unscrew the base cylinder and pull out the core. The cavity in his chest pulsed, the veins in his neck clenching purple. "Go!"

"Sit down, man. Hang on. Sit down." Howard looked flustered, taking him by the shoulders and seating him in the cushy office chair behind his desk. "You're lucky you're interesting, else I'd just throw you out to the hospital. Or on the street. But somehow I think a hospital can't deal with this." 

“No shit,” Tony grit out. 

“Hey, quiet.” He handed Tony a mug of cold coffee from his desk as though it would help. Ah, coffee. Had Howard been a coffee drinker? Tony couldn't remember ever noticing, unless it was an Irish coffee. He sniffed the mug and pulled a face, but downed the lot anyway and blinked, then fought and lost to keep his eyes from closing as his fists clenched in pain.

He kept his eyes shut as Howard knelt to examine the arc reactor, more like an engineer than a medical professional. He recoiled slightly at the sparks that nipped his skin, the veins that looked like they were about to pop, but he took it all in with calm eyes that looked like they'd seen much worse. "Palladium, you said? I don't know if we've got any of that and even if we do, I can't just shove it in. Gotta refine it, shape it..."

Tony’s throat burned, metallic and sour. "Just, no, it doesn't matter about that shit, just get me a lump of palladium, about...uh, make it 2 and a half millimetres- Do you have millimetres? Thin, alright? I just-" Tony hesitated, looking down at his lap and groping at the hole in his chest. "Please."

"Alright...alright." Howard breathed sharply and stood, as though pondering a specimen. He dialed a number of his desk and spoke into an antique-looking speaker: "Diana? Code Purple. Be a doll and open the lab, will you? I'll be down in a moment." He took his own sweet time ending the call, then looked back at Tony. "I'll get you your palladium, but you've got to tell me what this thing is. And how you'd fix my elevators."

"Oh hey, telephone. Cool. You guys have that?" His voice was starting to strain, black flickering at the edge of his vision. "Sure. Super elevators. You got uh...when was electricity. You got um...power source? Outlet, plug...toaster, I don't care. I need a jump." He waved a hand, sweat running in the rivulets of his muscles, his power ebbing away. "Hey, Diana, if you can hear me babe, you better hurry. You sound hot, is she hot? Can she even- You don't have comms in here fuck this is the Stone Age..."

The last thing he saw was Howard giving him another strange look-- not an inch of sympathy, something else he knew well-- before his vision faded to an electric black.

\--  

Bruce hooked Steve’s arms up to the metallic wires. The cuffs slid closed with a foreboding click.

“Are you ready?”

 Steve couldn’t help but smile wryly, overcome with a wild sense of deja vu. “Ready as I’ll ever be, doctor.”  The subway was dark. He could hardly make out Bruce’s figure amongst the mess of impromptu machines and wires, his fingers moving daintily over the handles. “Okay. Shocking in three, two, one...”

Steve grit his teeth to keep from crying out as the electricity coursed through his veins. Just as he thought he wouldn’t be able to keep quiet, the white hot pain subsided into something calmer, almost... milky in substance. He felt every breath in his body, every beat of his heart, heavy as a ton of bricks and weightless as a feather all at once. He felt himself drifting, and for a flash he thought he was outside his body, looking down at it from the ceiling, before the drifting became darker and everything faded out.

When he opened his eyes he was still on the train tracks, and a train was heading straight towards him.

“Shit, son!” Someone grabbed him by the collar and hauled him onto the maintenance track. The train rushed past them with a whir and a breeze that covered his face in ash. “Employees only down here, you could’ve been killed. Just like the one yesterday! Kids these days...” The custodian helped Steve to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

And deja vu all over again.


	3. I Heard This is Memory Lane

The air tasted like 1939.

Steve knew where he was the moment he stepped out onto the street. The pavement beneath his feet was a familiar worn asphalt, the buildings held together by bricks and dust, shop keepers behind their stands in the open air, calling out the price for a handful of overripe bananas. Cars he recognized milled about the streets with their spherical headlines and boxy roofs, men with briefcases and business suits milled about the crowd, a woman with a high collar and carefully twisted blond curls leaned against a streetlamp with lipstick the color of his boots. 

He fished in his pocket for a nickel -- hopefully the paper boy didn’t notice the date on it, 2010 -- and bought a paper off the street corner. The headlines should have been worrying: Chamberlain to visit Berlin, Britain and France to declare war? Hitler to invade Poland? But it brought him a sick sort of comfort. He shouldn’t have been happy, seeing the world ready to plunge headfirst into the most terrible conflict it had ever seen. But it was familiar. The threat of death hanging in the air, or maybe it was the call of adventure, calling to him from the cobblestone streets and the boys in caps playing ball in the parking lot, and boy selling small cartons of milk for ten cents apiece on the next corner -- all of it, it felt like home.

And so, hands tucked at rest in his pockets, his feet carried him down Nostrand Avenue to Brooklyn. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he was meant to be finding Tony, but he didn’t think that would be so hard. Tony had a habit of popping up when he least expected it, and of being infuriatingly scarce when he did; so honestly, what was the point in looking? 

The subway stop was just where he remembered it, the old stone and tile street sign at Winthrop Street wind-worn as ever, none of that white-on-black monotone sans-serif with colored circles round the train numbers. He knew where the 5 train without green arrows pointing him into the backs of thousands of foreign tourists, thanks, which was even more unsettling considering he was just as foreign as they were in 2012. But in 1939 his feet took him where he wanted to go, out to the 2 train at Brooklyn College and the rush of boots, suits and cheap cologne had never felt so welcoming. He resisted the urge to just hug everyone he passed, and settled for breathing in the intangible bliss that was Brooklyn. The Brooklyn he knew.

He ordered a cold soda at the Cafe Mart on the corner of Nostrand and Avenue D. The manager behind the register didn’t recognize him, but that was alright. He wasn’t the same Steve Rogers anyhow. Mr. McDonough a kind old man with graying streaks in his fiery hair, a flair for vintage postage stamps and an unshakable inflection of old Ireland behind his kind smile, “What’s that, Steve, got beaten up again?” And his sigh, “Here, have a soda. On the house.” 

The soda tasted real. Maybe it was the Cafe Mart, maybe it was Mr. McDonough busying around behind the counter it was really him he was really home -- or maybe it was that Coca-Cola still used real cacao in the stuff. Either way it left a pleasant buzz in the back of his throat, and he had the sensation of being drunk on air. 

Home. This was what home felt like. He leaned back against the chipped mahogany booth, rested his elbow on the ugly green-plastered table that was always slightly off kilter, tipping awkwardly against the missing floor tiles. 

A loud clang and an outburst shouts cut through his serenity. He looked up to see the lid of a trash can slam into to the glass window, shooting a crack up the side. A moment later a boy was shoved against the glass where the trash lid had hit and then into the ground, his jacket torn and bloodied.

Steve leapt to his feet on instinct. The jolt knocked his soda off the table but he didn’t notice the splatter on his sleeve has he swiveled away, ignored McDonough’s sharp green eyes following him and threw open the door.

The tiny doorbell rang as he pushed it open, but the gang of teens -- there were four of them, their grimy faces lit with sneers, their ringleader holding up their target by the collar of his ragged shirt, and as Steve closed the door he spat in his victim’s face. He felt a familiar anger rise in him. He was sure he’d encountered these exact boys before, seen the expressions on their faces as he was beat into the ground. Because all bullies were the same, and it was never right, no matter who they were, no matter when they were.

“Hey,” he said. No one moved, and the ringleader gave a kick to the boy’s groin. “Hey!”

A mousey-haired teen with too much oil in his hair looked up to grace Steve with a fraction of a glare. “What do you want?”

Steve stood his ground. “Put the boy down.”

The leader looked around at his friends, a slow smirk spreading to the ends of his cheeks before he burst into an all out laugh. “Who do you think you are, tough guy?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like bullies.”

He let go of the battered target, who crumpled to the ground with a strangled whimper. “I’ll show you a bully.” He beat a fist into his palm. “What do you say we show this hot shot who’s in charge around here, boys?”

This is where Fury would have rolled his eyes. 

Dealing with them didn’t take long. The first one came at him in a blind rage, all fists, and Steve hardly batted an eye before he had him face down on the pavement. The second had a knife, but his clumsy steps were easily dodged and he quickly found himself tipped over the dumpster. He threw the third into the glass and completely took out the window -- oops, he’d have to pay old McDonough back for that. The fourth one just gave a terrified shriek and took off running, his companions close behind him.

Steve knelt next to the beaten boy and extended a hand. “Hey, kid. You okay?”

He looked like he might have dislocated his arm from the way it was twisted, and the amount of blood on his torn jacket was enough to warrant concern. “Hey. I can take you to a hospital, or something...”

The boy pushed himself onto his hands. “I’m fine. I could’ve...coulda taken ‘em.”

Steve knew what it was to be stubborn and ignored the weary arm that tried to shove him away, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I really think you need...”

“Leave ‘im alone,” came McDonough’s thick voice from the doorway. “This ‘appens every other week, eh Stevie? Bring ‘im in for a cold soda an’ he’ll be fine.”

Steve looked down as the boy looked up. “Steve...?”

The blue eyes that met his through matted bangs burned him straight to the core. 

It was him. He was looking into his own eyes.

He swallowed and staggered back on his heels. “Hey, you alright, man?” he heard his younger self ask, his voice high with youth, weak with false confidence. 

“Fine, fine.” He stood and refrained from offering the boy a hand -- he knew he wouldn’t appreciate it, and he wouldn’t take it. McDonough held the door open for them as they staggered inside and slumped into seats next to each other at the bar. Steve considered leaving, because who knew what he was doing to the time stream? He could be preventing himself from becoming Captain America, or starting World War III before World War II or something. But something about McDonough’s familiar eyes, the classical conditioning of the bell on the door, and the way the old man smiled and stepped aside had him stumbling into the cafe like second nature.

“You need to stop picking fights, boy,” the old man chided, as he poured each of them a soda. “You’re lucky this fella was here, else you woulda been beaten to pulp.”

  “I had it under control,” he mumbled into his drink.

“Sorry about the window,” Steve added.

“Don’ worry about it. Tha’s the third this year.” He shook his head in what could have been construed as amusement. “Steve here’s a handful, ain’t ya?”

The younger Steve just made a discontented noise into his straw and tried to look subtle as he wiped the blood off his lip.

“For the record...” Steve accepted his drink and sipped it casually, peering sideways at his younger version over his glass with raised eyebrows. “I think Steve here’s real brave. Someone’s got to stand up to the bullies, and he looks like he’s doing a swell job.”

The boy looked up wearily, but his eyes shone. “You really think that, sir?” 

Steve put his glass down and smiled genuinely. “I do.” Before he could stop himself, he’d patted his younger counterpart on the back then clasped one of his hands in both of his. “Listen, kid... Steve. There’s something I need to tell you.” He wavered; was there some sort of inter-dimensional rule against this? He didn’t care. “Never give up, you hear me? You’ve got such a wonderful spirit and just... never give up. You’ll come out on top one day, I promise.”

He watched the boy’s face crumble, his mask of stubborn strength disintegrating into a mortified flush, but behind his eyes a delighted spark. When he finally spoke, his voice was small, “Do you think... I’ll be like you? What you just did there.... not that I didn’t have it under control, but... it was amazing, sir.” He looked away, down at his hands fiddling with the straw.

Steve just nodded sagely. “You will. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Speaking of eyes,” McDonough leaned across the counter, “You two look awfully alike. You sure you ain’t long lost cousins or somethin’?”

“Yeah...” Steve smiled with crinkly eyes. “Haven’t seen him ever before in my life.” He stood up and pushed his chair in, his smile faded to something wistful. “Thank you for the drink, sir.” And to the young Steve Rogers, “Never stop standing up to bullies. Wherever they are.”

The scrawny boy assembled his wayward limbs and pulled his frail hand into a salute. Steve saluted back, and thought he had never been so proud.

“See you, soldier.” And he left, the tiny doorbell ringing behind him.

\--

Tony woke lying on something soft. He felt drunk. He didn’t lift his head for fear of a monster hangover -- what the hell had he done last night? He hoped he’d screwed someone. Maybe Steve. He felt like he’d been drunk enough to have screwed Steve --

The pain hit, and he stopped himself. The fuck is wrong with you, Tony -- ow. He groaned loudly, scrunching his eyes.

He felt something cool draped over his forehead. “Howard,” said a voice missing it’s R, funny, Howard was a how-wad, like a dickwad but how? “He’s waking up, Howard.”

He didn’t notice that his eyes were open until a familiar face entered his line of vision. Familiar but smaller, sharper, and it had a well-trimmed mustache instead of a wild beard littered with breadcrumbs. Odd. He opened his mouth to say so, but his vocal chords didn’t seem in line with his brain just yet.

“Well whaddya know, Snow White lives.” He flinched as the man shone a penlight in his eyes, peering to examine his retinas. “I think he’ll be alright. What did you do, Peg, kiss ‘im?”

He heard an indignant huff from his left. “Just made him comfortable. You could do with a little more simplicity.”

“Simplicity wouldn’t have fixed this baby.” He leaned over him with a scalpel and tapped at the arc reactor. “I don’t know what kind of crazy shit they do in China, Rogers, but you’re lucky I’m a genius. This this is some real advanced stuff... we almost lost you.”

Tony managed a weak groan. “Did you... palladium?”

“Yeah. Added some sealant around the edges, too, bit of trillium core.”

The edge of his lips quirked up, as though he expected to be lauded for his brilliance. And Tony had to admit, he hadn’t done a bad job for 1939 and having no idea what the hell was going on. Not only was he not in pain, but he wasn’t dead yet. That won him some bonus points.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

Howard finally looked away and back over his shoulder. “Peggy, doll, bring him some water, will you?”

A moment later, a woman dressed in a smart business suit shoved a glass of water into Howard’s hands, hard enough for it to spill onto the front of his waistcoat. “I’m not your servant, Stark.” 

She stalked out of the room, sharp and balanced on her heels, and not even Tony dared whistle until she was gone. “Is that even legal in 1939?”

Howard looked at him sideways. “What?”

  “Nothing. She’s scary.”

Howard pulled up a barstool with his free hand, sat and held the water out to him. “She’s a piece of work,” he agreed, eyes raised skyward. “Hell of an agent, though. She’s better than half the men around here.”

Tony accepted the glass, concentrating all his feeble energy on keeping his hand steady. Howard lent an awkward arm for support as he attempted to push himself onto his elbows, the water balanced by his lips. He vaguely registered that he was on a lab table, laid out like an experiment, but someone -- probably Peggy -- had taken the liberty of adding a pillow against the wall in lieu of the rack of test tubes, and a small blanket-quilt beneath him. Clever.

“Do you two... you know.” He waved a hand. What did they call it in the forties?  

Howard went a brilliant shade of bright red, one he’d have to use in his next design of the Iron Man suit because it was just such a stunning color, and one that absolutely did not suit him. He fought down the urge to giggle.

“No, nah, no. I get my fair share of dames, but Peggy... no.” He looked thoroughly disturbed in a way Tony had never seen before and if he wasn’t half-delirious already, he probably would have built a modern camera in give or take five minutes and snapped a polaroid for posterity.

Instead, he decided to offer his senior advice: “You need a drink, man.”

Howard smiled wryly. “I like the way you think.” He stood, “I’m taking that seriously, you know. Want anything?”  

“Please.” Tony sipped the water, but his lips were still dry. What he wouldn’t give for a whiskey-

He didn’t notice Howard leaving until he came back, two bottles of corked whiskey in his hands. He took back all of his thoughts for the last thirty years of his life; he had the best dad.

“You sure I should be drinking with a heart condition?” he asked, with clearly with no intention of stopping as he swapped the water glass for whiskey.

“None of my business,” was Howard’s reply. Predictable. “Who am I to deny a man a drink?” 

  “I’ll drink to that.” Tony’s hand shook as he raised his glass. 

“A fighter. I like it.” Howard touched his glass to his. “Cheers.”

Tony kept a number of things in his lab, but whiskey was never one of them; he supposed that maybe there was something he could learn from Howard. They talked long into the night -- Peggy had come in to inform them it was past midnight and that Howard should stop harassing his patient, but that was the only indicator he had of time. But by then they were both sufficiently intoxicated, and Howard’s charming, suave exterior had dissolved into some cross between a laughing child and a rabid banshee and Tony had never known his laugh was so high pitched, or that there was a time when alcohol had turned him into a boy again, instead of a raging, terrifying man. He had a different light in his eyes, which would have been fascinating to him if he hadn’t passed the point of blurred vision somewhere around six shots ago.

“You’re different now,” was all he said, three words meant to encompass everything.

Howard looked at him over the rim of his glass. “Different how?”

  “Ne’er mind.” And took another shot.

Howard sighed and pulled his leg up over his knee, balancing in a slouched man-pose over the barstool. “You never told me how to fix my elevators.”

  “Oh, that.” Tony gave a sloppy laugh, his head tilted back against the makeshift pillow. “Fix up the pulleys. Weighted towards the bottom. Coat in, what’s it called? Iron.”

Howard’s brows knitted into a frown. “S’expensive.”  

“Don’t care. More sustainable.” Tony held the bottle to his lips like a microphone. “And your hovercraft? Also a weight issue. Needs to be less endloaded, more aerodynamic. Try adding thrusters under the headlights and the gas pipe in back.”

“How did you know about my...” Howard trailed off, the suggestion apparently clicking belatedly in his mind. “Yeah, I guess... yeah...”

“Eloquent as fuck,” Tony noted.

He laughed, heartily and from the back of his throat. “S’why the ladies love me.” He made a flicking motion of his hand that was probably supposed to look slick, but in his drunkenness Tony thought he looked something like a wounded chicken. 

“Like that Peg chick, hm?” 

Howard’s smirk fell into a thin line. “Peggy’s no chick,” he said solemnly. “She’s a military gal, through and through. I guess that’s how they breed ‘em in England. Stoic, hard to get. Too hard.”

Tony raised a brow, probably higher than he meant to. “Sounds like you know from, um. Experience.”

Howard shrugged. “I never tried, not seriously. ‘Sides, I got another dame now.” He didn’t wait for Tony to comment or express interest, “Her name’s Maria.” Insert appreciative whistle, “And she’s one hell of a looker.”

“Good sex?” Tony asked casually.

“You bet.” Howard’s eyes faded to something that if Tony didn’t know better, he would have called thoughtful. Pensive. Some fancy word he didn’t actually know. “The thing is though, she’s... she’s smart, too. I think she’s special.”

  “That’s nice.”  

“No, really. She’s real special. I think she might be the one.” Howard looked troubled. “I just, uh. I don’t know how to go about serious things. Playing ‘round and casual sex is all fun and games, but marriage? I’m getting old, I gotta act. But hell if I know how.”

  “Just be honest.” Tony nodded sagely. “Tell her you love her. And fuck her. Lovingly. The girls love lovingly.”

Howard shifted his legs. “I dunno, Chinaman. It’s not that easy. Maria wants...” He swallowed, as though the word itself was frightening to him. “Kids.”

  “Kids?”  

“Kids.” He nodded gravely. “She’s really into the whole, you know. Family and a dog thing. She wants to move to Long Island.”

“Kids ain’t so bad.” Tony felt like he was supposed to say something profound here, and for the first time since creating the Iron Man suit, he felt like he had the power to alter the course of his destiny. Could a few wise words turn him into a better person? A better father? 

Nah, probably not. He gave up and took another shot.

“Yeah, but they’re annoying,” Howard went on. “Useless little things. They’d just mess around in my lab, I can see it now, cheesing all over the blueprints...”  

Tony shrugged against the pillow. “What if he was the next Howard Stark?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’d be a shit father anyhow. That’s what Peggy says.” He put his glass down, and all of a sudden was staring pensively at the ceiling. There was an awkward silence before he looked back at Tony, soulful. “Do you think I’d be a bad father?”

Tony thought about it. Wasn’t there sort of time paradox where he could stop himself from being born? What if he said yes? Never have kids, Howard Stark. You’ll be abusive and neglectful and turn your son into a self-destructive sociopathic genius billionaire playboy philanthropist type thing who the world would honestly be better off without. He could save lives. His own life.

“No,” he said.

Howard looked at him. “No?”

“No.” Clipped, quiet. He met his eyes. It hurt.

But the strangest thing was, he felt like he wasn’t lying.

Fuck everything.

“Huh?” Howard looked at him sideways. Had he said that out loud?  

“Fuck everything,” he repeated, loud enough to be sure his lips were moving. “...My head hurts.”

  “Maybe we should lay off the whiskey. I’m almost out anyhow. And it’s almost three a.m.” Howard stood with what looked like great effort, took a long minute to steady himself then collected the empty glasses. He shelved the whiskey above his workstation, next to the test tubes, before letting out an exhausted sigh through his nose.

Then he looked at Tony, from across the room, like he had something more to say. He stared at him, his pupils small, thinking, before he left the lab without a word.

The conversation felt awkward, open ended, like a book shut and shredded on the second-to-last page, with a strong foreboding but no real knowledge the ending. And the worst thing was, in the back of Tony’s soupy consciousness, he knew it would never be finished. It felt abrupt, unnatural, and what terrified him most was that the absurdity was normal. This was his childhood. His adulthood too, for that matter.

But whatever else he thought of it, and of Howard Stark, was lost as he fell into a restless sleep.


End file.
